


No Going Back - Tamlin

by MoonbeamMadness



Series: No Going Back [3]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Other, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonbeamMadness/pseuds/MoonbeamMadness
Summary: Set after the events of my No Going Back series, centering around Tamlin.
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Azriel, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian, Tamlin (ACoTaR)/Original Character(s)
Series: No Going Back [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782382
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

Elain and Azriel’s wedding was an intimate and beautiful event held in her garden in Velaris. The sun shone from a blue cloudless sky. The guest list was small. Immediate family and friends, only. They weren’t a shy couple. Both had simply learned the value of privacy. Chairs set out among the roses and blossoms that Elain herself had nurtured from seeds and sapling; an aisle of colourful petals leading them to a white pergola that Cassian had had delivered for them. Carved into the wood beneath the flowers and vines decorating it, was the story of Azriel’s life; his life with his brothers. His battles and victories. And across the overhanging beams were tales of Mortal born Elain, her names and titles engraved, her slaying of the King of Hybern, her love of things that grew. The intricate glyphs of their union Cassian himself had carved in the white varnished oak - his gift to them.

Azriel looked out over the cheers and claps of his family and friends. His brothers’ families, Masha and Mor - their dates. Friends from across the Courts and within the city. Amren once more brought Varian; she appeared on his arm in glittering black, wearing a belt of egg sized gemstones of electric blue and one of her rare, less terrifying smiles.

But seated on the far edge of a row of chairs at the very back - the furthest a guest could have been from the inner circle; from Azriel’s family - Tamlin, the High Lord of the Spring court sat looking pensive and bored, focused intently on the bride and groom. Anywhere but at Feyre and Rhysand - at their son, Kylan, with his father’s black hair and his mother’s eyes. A painful reminder of a future that was squandered. At a wedding filled with happy couples and ecstatic guests, Tamlin sat there looking like he really wanted to be anywhere else.

“Why _exactly_ is Tamlin here?” Azriel asked Elain as they retired to the tables for food and drinks.

“Oh,” Elain smiled absently, “I invited him,” she said, “He’s my friend,”

And Azriel felt his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. The same Fae responsible for betraying them to Hybern. For taking her Human life from her; the cause of so much suffering. The High Lord of Spring was her _friend_? Azriel honestly didn’t think Tamlin had any of those _left_.

“I didn’t realize,” he simply said. His wife kept many things to herself. And this was unlikely going to be the last time he discovered something he didn’t know; something even his shadows hadn’t managed to uncover. The master of spies had married the mistress of secrets.

————————–

Tamlin had found her alone in the back gardens of Rosehall, pruning his geraniums and clipping back his late mother’s roses on an otherwise unmemorable, sunny Friday afternoon. Elain Archeron in a muddy blue dress, humming to herself, while she snipped at the bushes; tending to them as if they were hers and not his to care for.

Tamlin paused looking around for Lucien - the only thing his mind could draw on that would possibly explain her presence, but his old friend had chosen to remain in the mortal realms. Gone years. In recent times, Tamlin had heard rumors of half Fae children and other such far-fetched tales but the overlaying theme was that the Autumn prince _wasn’t_ planning to return. Lucien had built a life for himself far from here. Tamlin searched. First with his eyes and then with his magic. But there was no one else with her. Nothing hidden from his sight, either.

Elain Archeron had come to the Spring Court entirely on her own.

Tamlin’s first response was to feel rage. Boiling, blinding anger. That any of _them_ would turn up at _his_ home unannounced, uninvited, entirely unwelcome. But for all his temper and misery, there was also the reality that not even his own subjects came to his estate these days, and a deeply reviled part of himself still longed for company. It seemed any company.

Rosehall had been empty for so many years, and her presence just so _bizarre_ that curiosity ultimately won out against Tamlin’s temper. He’d taken on no servants since the war. Collected no tithe. The Spring rite he barely remembered. Nameless, faceless females. He did his duty - to the land and his birthright - and nothing more, retiring to his home at the first opportunity, though it could hardly be called such. Rosehall was now a cavernous expanse of thorns and wild grasses. Trees growing up through cracks in the marble floor, paint peeling from the walls. A storm had broken the impressive glass doors at the rear of the house; Tamlin had left them broken, glass where it fell. The wooden doors and banisters through Rosehall had sprouted green shoots that were winding their way along the doorframes and beams.

This was a home no longer. Certainly not his. Maybe to the spiders and mice. Few Fae saw him and those that did witnessed only the beast out hunting. With fangs and claws and horns. A wildness now in the High Lord of Spring that unnerved even the darkest creatures in his lands; sent them into hiding.

But Tamlin decided that on this instance, he would hear out whatever it was that Elain Archeron had come to say to him. If for nothing other than the pleasure of hearing the sound of someone else’s voice.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Elain let out a light gasp, looking up and over to him like she hadn’t noticed him arrive, holding a rose bloom cupped in the palm of her hand like one would hold a child’s cheek.

“Your roses have a blight, they’ll be dead before the end of the month,” she said casually. In her other fingers she held a small garden shears. Her feet were bare. Thorny stems scattered around them tearing at the ends of her dress. He frowned. Flowers and trees in his court didn’t get diseases. They didn’t get fungus. They didn’t wither.

“Impossible,” he snapped. “How did you get here?” Tamlin demanded.

She disappeared, reappearing beside him - _too close_ \- her head tilted to the side. He staggered back several steps in shock. Heart racing. No threats, no weapons. But her very demeanor left him on edge. There and not. Aware and very much someplace else entirely.

“A question for when I was mortal, maybe?” she asked quizzically and Tamlin pulled back his lips, his fangs elongating, his nails sharpening to claws. Fear giving way to his anger and he dropped down to all fours, changing into the beast that had terrified her and her father and sister those many years ago.

And the seer laughed at him.

“People think it’s just the future I see, but it isn’t. I see the past, too,”

“And what do you _see now_?” Tamlin snarled, slowly circling her like a wolf would an injured deer.

“It’s going to rain,” she said in a sing song voice, as she pocketed her shears. Tamlin reflexively looked up, cursing as Elain ran passed him and into the house through the long shattered doors. He scrambled after her, his claws ripping up the roots growing along floors as he skidded on dried leaves and crushed glass, bounding after her. She moved through the house like she knew every room and door, before finally making her way into the kitchen. When he burst in he found her sitting a kettle on the stove, setting out cups at his table. Outside, thunder sounded and rain started to fall, drowning out the noise of his animal growls.

But he paused as thunder shook the walls and Elain put a saucepan on the counter as water began dripping from the ceiling. _Tap Tap Tap_. It hadn’t looked like rain. Tamlin frowned, changing back; shedding his beastly form. He was suddenly inexplicably bone weary. His head throbbed and stomach revolted. Too much wine the night before. Too _many_ nights before. His Court was in disarray. He was worse.

“Why are you here? Are you here looking for an apology? Do you want me to beg and grovel for forgiveness?”

“If I’d wanted to see you _beg_ , I wouldn’t be here alone,” she reasoned. “And I doubt any punishment I could come up with would be worse than what you’ve done to yourself,”

Tamlin huffed and sat down as she filled a teapot.

“I’m here because I need your _help_ with something,” she said.

“What could you _possibly_ need my help with?” he bit out. She’d the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court at her back. The ear of Rhysand’s assassin. A sister who’s power rivalled that of gods. What would she possibly need that others wouldn’t willingly bend over backwards to provide.

“ _Some gardening_ ,” Elain said, pouring out a cup of tea and sliding it toward him. “Ginger,” she told him, “It’ll help,”

Tamlin straightened, caught off-guard.

“You turn up here uninvited and tell me you want my help? With _gardening_?” he snorted, pushing the cup aside. “What in the hell makes you think I’ll help _you?_ ”

“You’ll have the opportunity to meet your mate,”

———————

Her idea of ‘some gardening’ involved the laborious task of growing a city’s worth of vegetation in the newly restored city of Calcarum, up in the treacherous mountains north of the Night Court. A place he’d only heard in stories. Destroyed by Rhysand’s family when they’d taken these lands; now restored in all its former splendor. The air was so thin Tamlin could barely breath without feeling weak - every three steps made him feel light-headed but the volcanic remains in the city made for a fertile base and to Tamlin’s astonishment the grasses and trees that blossomed from the new rich earth he made grew aggressively, even more so than in his own court. Illyria was wild place. In a way, he couldn’t help but like that about it. At the foot of the mountain, preparations for the Illyrian wedding and coronation were underway as Feyre’s older sister, Nesta, prepared to marry Rhysand’s former guard dog - now finally off his leash it seemed. And as compensation for Tamlin’s work in the city, he’d been extended not just an invite to the celebration, but also one to visit the city that Rhysand had been hiding all these years. The city Feyre had abandoned Rosehall for.

But it had been Elain Archeron’s promise that had lured him from his Court. At first he’d scoffed at it. But the longer he sat alone in his ruined house, the more the idea pulled at him. Taunting him. Lonliness could be crippling when you knew just how many years were waiting for you. And his roses _had_ been suffering from a blight. His own power was unstable. The Spring Court was in turmoil. So Tamlin decided to indulge himself.

Elain told him he would meet her among the guests. In a past life, Tamlin would have pressed her for a name; would have taken her by the throat and pinned her to the stone until she gave him the information he wanted, through sobs and tears if need be, but he was very weary of playing the villain. Despite appearances, he wasn’t actually okay with being so universally hated. He could also admit that there was an element of thrill in stalking about the party of guests putting names to the faces. Wondering who it might be.

There were no shortage of attractive females present. Helion himself seemed to have travelled with his entire court, and there were dozens that had travelled from Summer with their Prince - the male hanging off the arm of the Night Court’s residing demon.

Cleaned up, Tamlin was still considered beautiful. And even in a world such as this it was still enough to turn heads and intentional or not, he garnered the interest of plenty of females at the wedding. The fact that he hadn’t been seen in public for so long only seemed to add to the desirability. He’d been reluctant initially, but after a few glasses of wine, Tamlin found himself enjoying it. Enjoying the attention at least. He had no reason to trust Feyre’s sister, but he didn’t take her for a liar. Which meant that there was a chance, a small one perhaps, that one of the females hanging off his arm, wine glass in hand might be the one she’d spoken about.

“Oh, I’m _empty_ ,” A red haired vixen with blood red lips wiggled her wine glass at Tamlin suggestively and he took it from between her fingers, their hands brushing.

“Allow me,” He turned and grabbed one of the Illyrian females by the arm as they passed, dropping the glass into her hands. “Refill it, and be quick about it,” he snapped his fingers.

He turned away to find the females giggling amongst themselves. Something humourous he must have missed. The red haired Fae grinned deviously at him.

“My wine?” she asked him.

“One of the servants is fetching it,”

And then Tamlin felt cold shock run down his back. Wine running into his eyes and down his tunic. The Fae he’d been with, laughed at him even as anger boiled in his blood and fangs sprouted in his mouth. There was the sound of ringing steel and as he wiped his eyes and blinked back into focus he saw the female he’d mistaken as a servant. Eyes the colour of wet bark stared him down. In moments they were surrounded by Illyrian soldiers.

“Is there a problem?”

Tamlin made to open his mouth but never got the chance.

“There _was_ a problem, but I think it’s been resolved,” and Tamlin watched them bow to the female who’d spoke; with her scarred face and wings. As he noticed the tunic - the dress uniform, he realized she wasn’t a servant. She held military rank. He clamped his mouth shut, tasting blood as his own lengthened teeth bit into his mouth. There would be no victory picking a fight here. Feyre, Rhysand, the soon to be crowned King and Queen, and an army at their beck and call. Tamlin had expended a lot of energy replenishing the city gardens.

“At your word, Commander Masha,” the warrior said bowing, sparing a distinct glare Tamlin’s way.

“Please help find the High Lord a clean shirt,” she said, turning away.

—————————-

Humiliated and stinking of wine Tamlin had left soon after the wedding. Slinking back to his house. He stopped by the roses circling his home, noting the old scars from the blight Elain had cut off. She’d been right. With a growl of rage and and angry flit of his wrists, the bushes withered away into dead husks as Tamlin slipped inside. He’d seen the dilapidation of his home for some time. Roots had broken the floors. Grass. Weeds. They’d the run of the place now. This had been his father’s home, and it was with a moment of clarity in the foyer that Tamlin realised how he’d come to hate it. And it had been easy to let it fall down around him because in this place, there were so few good memories; and the ones here of joy he’d poisoned himself. His idea of love was twisted. What was worse was knowing the truth and having no idea how to go about fixing it.

Tamlin took a final look around the High Lord’s home before stepping out through his front doors, locking them behind him and disappearing into the woods.

———————

Tamlin had long since given up asking himself how the seer kept finding him. He changed his location on a weekly basis, magic bending the trees and vines, sleeping on a bed of moss and grass. As far as he knew, Elain Archeron wasn’t familiar with the lands of the Spring Court but she was still able to locate him. Sometimes she would bring him things. Clothes. _Cakes_. Other times she would ask him for assistance with something, dragging him back into civilization. Normally it was to a meeting of the High Lords; to a banquet for all the Courts where his presence would be expected, but sometimes it was for mundane reasons, like she needed advice on her garden. A troublesome patch of returning weeds. A fussy orchid. He enjoyed those more. No expectation, casual conversation. She was Lucien’s mate and had there been different circumstances, they might have been happy together. But it was a harsh lesson Tamlin had learned. Sometimes even with all the will in the world - fate itself - it just wasn’t enough.

Seasons passed like dreams; Tamlin scarcely remembered them but the pain of seeing Feyre lessoned with the years. It was only seeing her well, and happy that he recognized how miserable she’d been with him; how _ill_. And power suited her, he loathed to admit it, but it did. She was kind, and decisive. Young, but a quick learner. He’d have been lucky to have ruled with her. But she wouldn’t have been fortunate in that partnership. She’d have grown to outright hate him eventually. Bound to him. Trapped in a prison.

Tamlin would ask Elain each time he’d see her - each time she would coerce him out into the world - ask her if his mate would be there, and she would sometimes answer yes and occasionally answer no. In the beginning it had been a game, checking off names, crossing out faces, but in the last years he’d found himself forgetting who he’d ruled out, who still remained a possibility. He enjoyed Elain’s friendship. A relationship without the complication of status. They shared common interests. Through her, he’d rekindled a love for growing things again.

He hadn’t remembered to ask if his mate would be present when Elain Archeron invited him to her wedding. He’d not set foot in Velaris before and the sheer beauty of the city staggered him. He couldn’t blame Feyre for leaving, when this was what was waiting for her. A place of starlight and splendor.

Tamlin’s gift to Elain had been a single stem of roses that would ever bloom, would be untouched by winter, untouched by the scorch of the summer sun. As white and pure as snow. A tiny piece of the High Lord of Spring, left in the Court of Night. A gift….and, if he was honest, an apology too. His betrayal of Feyre and her sisters, there was nothing he could offer save his life in recompense for that. And Tamlin doubted his life was worth much these days.

She didn’t visit him for some time afterward, the winds whispered to him that she’d given birth to twins. Married, blessed with children, she had better things to do than visit him. And Tamlin took the time to visit the towns within his borders where he found that with the years he’d failed to collect his tithe the people of the Spring Court had prospered. They required little governance, certainly none from him, and provided he tend to the land, the land provided to his people. In the years of late, they’d told him the harvests had been the most bountiful in memory.

When Elain came to him next, there was something distinctly wrong. She wore an armoured corset of blackened bone, and a dagger at her belt when he’d rarely even seen her wear shoes.

“You need to leave!” Elain told him. Tamlin sat up on his elbows.

“I must commend you on your greeting, it’s been, what, a decade since I’ve seen you last? No pleasantries?”

Elain paused, clearly considering just how many years it had been. Realizing it had been as long as he said, her children were turning nine. Time for Fae was a strange concept. Years often passed without notice. For Elain it was often even more confusing. As her power grew it frequently became difficult to tell the past, present and future apart; the visions blurring her sight unbidden, assailing her in her waking hours.

“A fleet has landed from Hybern just south of your border in the mortal lands, they will sweep though your court in three days. They’ve come for you,”

“Then I suppose _you_ should have visited earlier,”

Elain clenched her teeth, ignoring the jab. _“_ The other Courts are raising their forces but it will be too late for you,”

“I’ll send word to the Court guard - ”

“They won’t be enough - they won’t be _in time_. If you stay here, you are going to die and since you have no heir, no family to pass the title onto, another line will be chosen and Hybern plans to replace you with one of their own,” She grabbed his arm, her hands were cold. Elain had changed in the years she’d been gone. Tamlin was so used to her calm knowing, that this obvious panic shook him.

“If I flee, my people will be slaughtered,” he whispered, slipping free from her fingers.

“If you stay, _you_ will be slaughtered,”

And Tamlin felt the burden of a life of sins fall heavily on his shoulders. All his failings. His crimes and betrayals.

“I deserve far worse,” he whispered, brow furrowed. And he meant it. There wasn’t a hell for the things he’d done - things that he knew to be evil but did anyway. He’d told her - told Amarantha that Feyre couldn’t read. He’d seen her and Rhysand together, seen the marks of their bargain and he’d betrayed her - betrayed the woman he’d claimed to love, all out of jealous spite. Rhysand kept her alive while he’d been powerless, and Tamlin knew now that if he’d truly loved her, he should have bowed down to kiss the High Lord of the Night Court’s feet. That wasn’t the first, and it wasn’t the worst, but it was a sin he hadn’t yet faced. Tamlin stood, stretching and squaring his shoulders. This was his land, if he died, it would be here and he would be fighting for it.

He watched Elain look through him, her eyes passing him into a future unknown and then she sighed softly.

“I’ll do what I can to help. But you _need_ to live,”

_For what comes next_

And she winnowed away.

——————–

There were three thousand Fae that landed on Prythian shores, emerging from the ocean mists without warning and making camp there on the beaches. Elain was right, Tamlin wouldn’t have had time to organize a defense for this. Their numbers were too great. Had she not provided the warning he wouldn’t had had the time to evacuate his lands; send his citizen’s fleeing north with his own guard as protection. Though not all were willing to leave, some choosing instead to stay and fight. To die with him if need be, while others were simply unwilling to leave their homes. They’d no intention of abandoning all that they’d built.

When Tamlin and his remaining soldiers had found the advance forces of the Hybern Fae, they were burning his people from their houses, putting their fields to the torch. And the winds blew a storm as Tamlin unleashed his wrath upon them, his beastly body tearing through armour and rending flesh. He had fifty guards with him, not enough to stem the horde sweeping through Spring but it was enough noise to pause the enemy advance. Elain had said they were planning to kill him. Well, there he was.

Blood soaked ash soaked the earth as Tamlin and his soldiers made their final stand. They’d slaughtered hundreds but more had come, eventually surrounding them. Arrows rained from the sky, falling indiscriminately on both Spring Court soldiers and injured Hybern Fae. Tamlin had been fighting for hours without rest, his strength had dwindled to the point that not even his winds were enough to take them all from the sky before they landed and unable to save them, he watched his guards fall, their screams and shouts drowned out by his own. One by one they died, pierced by feathered shafts. Tamlin blocked most but two made it through to him. One striking his shoulder and another in the thigh bringing him to his knees. He watched Fae advance from all sides. Closing in on him. When he looked up, there were males in armour all around him.

“Pathetic,” One dressed in silver laughed down at him. “You don’t _deserve_ the title of High Lord,” the male said raising a spear tip to Tamlin’s throat.

Tamlin blinked, bracing himself for death. The cold edge of steel pricking his skin.

And then it was all gone in a blaze of light. Hybern soldiers shouted and roared around him and Tamlin clenched his eyes against the shards of splintered wood and the blood and white light that seared his face. It was so hot it burned his eyelids and lips. A whirlwind of blistering power. And as suddenly as it came it was gone. And as the noise and the heat died down Tamlin risked opening his eyes and found himself at the center of a guard of Illyrian warriors.

“Don’t move,” One of them barked, pulling his helmet free and crouching down in front of Tamlin. His skin paler than the rest, with blue grey eyes and black hair so strikingly familiar. _Had it really been that long?_ The child that hadn’t been able to sit still at Elain’s wedding was now a fully grown male. Where once he’d been fighting imaginary beasts with a wooden sword, now he wore wings as Rhysand did; the sword at his hip was steel, and blood stained.

“You’ve grown, Kylan,” Tamlin hissed out. Feyre’s son examined his wounds and before he could protest, pulled the arrow from his thigh. Tamlin wavered at the sudden rush of blood from the wound as Kylan prodded the one through his shoulder, frowning. That would not be so quickly removed.

“You recognized me?”

“I’d know your mothers eyes blinded in a darkened room,” Tamlin laughed softly. The sound morphing into a hiss of pain.

“And I’d know the High Lord of the Spring Court, by the attempted suicide,” he growled back.

The anger in his veins gave Tamlin enough strength to rise on one leg and snarl back at him. Displaying a set of razor sharp teeth.

The Night Court prince laughed at him, a laugh so reminiscent of his father that for just a seconds delirium, Rhysand was there before him and not his son.

“Good,” was all he said, winnowing them all out of the battlefield.

Tamlin must have lost consciousness for a moment because he only remembered opening his eyes, not closing them, and when he came around, it was in a war camp. Fae in the armour of at least half the Courts in Prythian and a legion of Illyrian soldiers, all mobilizing for war. He heard Far speaking. Voices that were familiar.

“I didn’t want to take it out, the pain would probably have killed him,”

“Yes, but you’d no problem pulling out the one in his leg and nicking the artery there,”

Tamlin’s eyes snapped open as rough hands fell on his shoulders, holding him still as something snapped the shaft of the arrow in his shoulder and forced it all the way through. He cried out in pain, gasping as it faded to warmth. His eyes refocused and he saw an Illyrian female with hands covered in blood throw the broken arrow at Kylan angrily.

“If he’s still alive with an arrow in his shoulder and his leg, _you leave them in!_ ” she raised a finger. “If you aren’t trained to take them out, then you leave them for someone who _fucking is_ ,”

“Yes, General Masha,” the son of the High Lord bowed even as Tamlin rattled the name around his head. His mind momentarily struggled with the command structure of what was happening - it took him an instant to remember that the Illyrian’s didn’t fight for the Night Court anymore. They had their own leaders. Rhysand’s son looked to be here, operating under, or with at least the Illyrian forces.

“Go do something useful before your Uncle arrives and I’ve to explain to them why you’re hog tied with the Summer Court horses,”

He left quickly, and Tamlin stood.

“Thank you!” he inclined his head, genuinely grateful but she only huffed at him, shaking her head.

“That’s not normally the polite response to gratitude,” Tamlin growled at her.

“Gratitude? You should be on your _knees_ thanking me,” A warrior passed her carrying a dozen spears and she paused, stopping him, “They go to the _east_ flank,” she snapped, circling back to Tamlin, “I had to advance our lines three days ahead of schedule to pull you out of there, this line is now _vulnerable_ thanks to you,”

Tamlin bit down on his anger.

“I didn’t ask to be saved by - ” he started to say but was interrupted before he could continue.

“Don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence!” she bared her teeth at him, her wings flapping in anger. “Spring is the only vulnerable Court, if they kill you and take a foothold here, then the fighting will never end,”

Tamlin took a calming breath, he knew she was right. If it were possible to supplant him in Spring, all they need do is replace him with someone from a large family and Prythian would see a Hybern ruler in Court till the stars fell. He realised that self exile to the wilds had resulted in knowledge gaps; Tamlin genuinely had no idea what the state of affairs were currently in Prythian. He studied her a moment longer. His mind clearing. He’d seen her before.

He narrowed his eyes. “You poured a glass of wine over my head at Nesta Archeron’s wedding,” he sputtered out. Though she wore heavy armour now and along her chest six Illyrian siphons sat, marking her power level as dangerous.

“I don’t recall that - or much else,” she hushed under her breath, “But now that I’ve met you and I’m entirely sober, I’m pretty positive you likely deserved it,” something caught her eye and she turned a half step towards a large group of Fae soldiers in Night Court garb handing out quivers. He saw the problem. There was a lot to be done and it didn’t take six males to distribute arrows.

Tamlin snorted, then winced with the ache in his shoulder, though both it and the one in his leg had closed with barely a scar, only the dull memory of pain and torn cloth remained. She was a powerful healer and it was clear from the organization in the camp she knew what she was doing. He watched her walk away and laughed as she took one of the soldiers by the collar and shoved him out into the ranks of the archers, throwing him a bow while males around him chuckled.

She stalked back to Tamlin, handing him a sword.

“If you stay here, you fight. And if you fight, you will be following _my_ orders. If you can’t come to terms with that, I’ll have some warriors escort you north across the Summer border,” she said.

Tamlin thought it over. He couldn’t fight an army alone. He wrapped his hands around the hilt of the weapon. Testing it’s weight. He nodded, bowing slightly.

“Good to hear,” she said turning away from him. He followed her with his gaze as she walked away. Briefly wondering how he was going to manage taking orders when he’d only ever given them. But that was over two decades ago. Things had changed.

He saw warriors stop what they were doing and bow as she passed. A _lot_ had changed.

“I DID deserve it!” Tamlin called after her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as she looked back over to him and shrugged, self satisfaction written on her face.

“I’m a good judge of males, then,” she hollered back.


	2. Chapter 2

_Why?_

Tamlin wasn’t simply disliked, he was hated. It wasn’t exactly unfamiliar, but it was definitely surprising how old hatreds had endured. The different groups all had their own reasons for the glares and the muttered curses but the result was the same. The Fae from the Night Court knew of his tumultuous history with both their High Lord and Lady. The Summer Court forces remembered his betrayal to Hybern.

They avoided him whenever possible. Conversations ceased at his approach. Eyes followed him suspiciously. For the first week, Tamlin couldn’t bring himself to sleep. Afraid that someone might slit his throat while he slept and the worst part was that he couldn’t exactly blame any of them for it. In their position, _he_ certainly wouldn’t have forgiven his sins.

But the Illyrian’s - the Illyrian’s seemed to be the only forces not to care about his checkered past. Not to care about previous allegiances or rivalries.

It was only Tamlin present behavior that he saw grate on them.

“But why? Why let them advance at all it you have the numbers to stop them here?” Tamlin jabbed a finger into the map. “Why give them an _inch_ of land?”

The Illyrian General cut him with such a look of annoyance that a lesser Fae would have likely recoiled - perhaps a smarter Fae, too. Soldiers - male, female, Illyrian and High Fae alike, scrutinized the exchange in nervous silence. Tamlin was older and had fought in his share of wars, but he _wasn’t_ in charge. And whatever her history, the Illyrian’s trusted their General. The rest simply trusted _him_ less.

“If we give up this half mile stretch, we feign weakness, and they’ll need to break their lines to cross,” She indicated a patch of land on the map that Tamlin knew to be littered with boulders and rocks. War wagons would be slow. Ranks would need to dissolve. They would be vulnerable.

“It would be just as easy to pick them off -”

“I’m not asking for your _opinion_ , High Lord,” she snarled. “Fall in line, or _fuck off,_ ”

“This is _my_ land you’re fighting on. _My_ Court,” he bit out, flashing fangs at her. It was so easy to become that person again. Controlling. Bitter.

“Then you should have been protecting it,” The reply was instant. Like a bucket of cold water down his back. Tamlin watched the way the Illyrian’s squared their shoulders with something like pride, while the High Fae snickered at his expense. Feyre’s son remained silent; watching from the shadows.

Following anyone’s command but his own was a steep learning curve for Tamlin. The Prythian forces were so far divided into three. Rhysand, Tarquin and the Illyrian General. A mixture of the Courts between them all. Under the Illyrian General he stood beside Night Court and Summer Court soldiers - the Illyrian’s shielding them from the sky as they clashed on the ground.

When Tamlin understood and agreed with the maneuvers it was easier to fall into rank, but Illyrian tactics had changed over the decades. And he asked questions. Too many, as far as his unlikely comrades were concerned. They followed commands. Fought to the death if need be. And not one of them would dare question it. Not like he did.

He quickly realized that warfare to Fae without wings was a two dimensional affair, and expanding his field of perception to include aerial attacks and defenses was a difficulty for him that General Masha didn’t have. And she wasn’t always able to break things down for him. Sometimes she simply didn’t have the time. Others, the patience. She gave orders. And this legion followed. There was no space between.

The fighting during the day had been fierce. It wasn’t simply herself that she healed on the battlefield. From the sky as she moved overhead, soldiers wounds would close, fatal injuries became troublesome flesh wounds. Her loyalty Tamlin realized was not cultured by fear of what she might do if they disobeyed, but because most of them owed her their lives.

Her mood after the fighting had been sour. They ate in smaller groups around dozens of fires but she picked at her food. Her plan had been sound and like she’d calculated they were forced to disperse their ranks to advance. But their archers had range. Shooting with larger bows Tamlin had never seen before, and Hybern shredded their Illyrian ranks. Body’s falling from the sky like birds. But the ground forces moved in on them and Prythian retribution was swift. Their General however didn’t seem to notice. She scrambled across the rocks on foot. Pulling out arrows and healing those she could could save. They lost more than they had any other day of fighting and he saw the weight of it fall on her.

“Cassian would have struck earlier, maybe the King should have come himself instead of sending a lacky,” Tamlin said, as she sat nursing a cup of wine by the fire. He couldn’t say his plan would have been any better, but it was less reliant on Illyrians. Maybe there would have been less injuries, fewer deaths. In the blackness Tamlin could see a dozen more fires blazing against the night. Kylan glanced up from his food, his narrowed eyes flickering in the firelight at the comment. A warning to Tamlin. Warriors continued eating but there were dark eyes on him now. The High Fae from Summer and Night probably wouldn’t have cared less. But this was under the command of an Illyrian. So the winged Fae were very concerned with any rumour or slander against one their own.

“No - no he wouldn’t have,” she snapped, casting the contents of her cup into the flames. A wave of red heat washed over Tamlin face as the fire blazed up. “If you have any issues with how I run things, we can settle it off the table, but don’t doubt for a second that I don’t have the full support of my King,” she rasped.

Tamlin was growing accustomed to the Illyrian manner of doing things and ‘off the table’ normally implied combat. Taking a decision away from the discussion table and resolving it elsewhere. Normally a bloody endeavor. He was a High Lord, but she had the ability to heal from any wound and she was no slouch in a fight. Even if he did kill her, what would be the next stage? These warriors wouldn’t follow him. For all Tamlin knew, she was the one keeping the others from murdering him in the night.

“My plan would have worked,”

“We’d have had double the deaths,”

“They’d have been honorable deaths,”

“And what would you know about _honor_?” she snapped at him. The mood around the campfire darkened and the whispered conversations lapsed into silence. “What would you _care_ about honor?” She leaned forward looking at him from under heavy lids, before standing and stretching out.

“Yes, soldiers do die,” she interrupted him. “But there’s no _honor_ in _any_ of it,” she beat her wings, blowing ash and ember onto Tamlin’s feet, startling him. “Just needless, stupid, violent death,” As she moved away and into the darkness, Tamlin picked up the faintest scent of blood.

Silence fell like a cold blanket over the campfire and it took a number of quiet minutes before conversation resumed, but Tamlin noticed soldiers begin to leave quickly after her exit. Soon, only Rhysand’s son remained, picking his teeth with a chicken bone. Staring at him.

“ _What?”_ Tamlin growled.

“No wonder my mother still sorta hates you. That right there, is what she calls 'pulling a Tamlin’,” he laughed bitterly, pausing for a moment. “Trying to undermine her - humiliate her was a mistake,”

He frowned at Kylan; clenching his jaw so hard he felt his teeth groan in his head. He was a _verb_. How _dare_ she. Tamlin felt acid in his veins. The peaceful years in the wilds he’d thought had changed him had disappeared with each day of bloodshed. And he was the same angry male he’d been all those decades ago.

“Death shouldn’t upset a General,” he said, surprisingly defensive. The way Kylan was looking at him. His real feelings hidden so we’ll beneath that mask of amused indifference. So much like his father it hurt Tamlin.

“There is _nothing_ wrong with being horrified by needless slaughter,” Kylan said, his tone sharpening. The mask slipping. Tamlin could see it - a moment of utter transparency. The savagery in how he defended her. He _loved_ her.

“Shewas _wrong_ though,” Kylan sighed, grey eyes shining. “Your plan would have killed far more than double with those new bows, it might have cost us the entire battle,”

The accusation stung. He was the High Lord of Spring. He was nearly six hundred years old.

“Caring like she does _will_ eventually break her,”

“And she knows that,” he hissed at Tamlin. Anger seeping from every word. Pain in his voice. _It’s her choice._

“And of all the fronts in Prythian, they sent you to fight under _her_? Not your own father?”

“My mother wanted me to learn from someone who still understood the value of life,”

And then he stood up and left Tamlin to his food with far too much to ponder. He hadn’t accused him explicitly, but still the conversation left Tamlin feeling shame. He sat for several minutes alone in silence. Mulling over his words. They’d been uncalled for and she hadn’t deserved them. Maybe if he’d learned to curb his temper and bile when Feyre shared his bed, she might not have left him. Most of the soldiers at Masha’s command owed their life to her in some way, him included. She’d been right the first time. He _was_ ungrateful.

Her tent sat away from the rest of the camp. Wrapped in darkness, save for a single flickering light inside it. A shadow moving, dancing at the entrance. Tamlin paused outside it for a moment, summoning the nerve.

“I feel I should apologise -” he froze at the entrance of the tent as the smell of blood he’d picked up earlier rushed his senses. He watched her head snap up to him as she sat at a desk stripped of her armour and unbinding bloody strips of bandage from her waist. The white stripes and blotches - the remnants of dozens of old scars stood out from the rest of her darker skin and Tamlin couldn’t help but follow the marks with his eyes, visualising the weapons that made them. He’d had barely a mark after she’d healed him. The circumstances that would leave her so marred must have been grave indeed.

On the table in front of her there was a knife, and various medical tools and tweezers.

He stood there opened mouth. Unable to speak.

“Splinters,” she simply said, looking away and picking up the knife.

Tamlin’s stomach revolted, climbing up his throat as he watched her slice into her own flesh, widening the wound on her side; making it large enough for her to fit her fingers in and begin the search. The pain made Tamlin sweat in her place, though she seemed not to feel a thing.

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“Only a little,” she said plainly, yanking a sliver of wood from the opened hole in her side and holding it up to the light. Twisting it back and forth. She looked back at him. His eyes had been so focused on the horror of her self surgery that he hadn’t noticed just how pale she looked. Thin and drawn out. He hadn’t seen her eat at dinner. Hadn’t seen her fumble with more than a cup of wine.

“I came to apologise,”

“I don’t _want_ your apologies,” she snapped at him.

“But you do deserve one,”

“I’m not sure you noticed, but this is hardly the time,” she said. Her face focused as she rummaged around in the open wound. Blood was pouring down her hip and leg now. A lot of blood. Too much blood.

Tamlin felt anger gnaw at him again. He was trying to do something decent and still it was getting spat back at him.

She looked at the expression he wore and set the knife down. Tamlin could have sworn her hand wavered.

“You’ve the manners of a petulent child,” he sneered.

And Masha threw her head back and laughed.

“ _Great_ apology so far,”

“What’s the point of _trying_? When you won’t even hear me out?”

“Because you aren’t here for my sake,” she spit the words at him like they were poison - like she would choke on them. “You don’t even really mean it. You just want to say you did your best. That it’s not your _fault_. You’re _trying_. I’m just _intentionally_ aggravating you,”

She cursed at him under her breath. Illyrian words he didn’t recognize but had heard in general conversations around the camp.

“Males like you are always _sorry_ , but it never seems to stop them doing it again,” she stared him down. “I know your type. Stubborn. Cruel. Possessive. You broke your toys as a child. Tormented your friends because you could and no one would tell you off and your father was powerful,” she looked him up and down. “You aren’t used to hearing the word 'no’,”

Tamlin’s heart skipped a beat in his chest.

“And if I dropped to my knees and begged you to forgive me, would you accept it?”

And no sooner had the words left his mouth than the skin on her side knitted together. The scar that was left was feint. Another white raised ridge in her skin to join the unidentifiable dozens she carried. She met his eyes and his blood ran cold.

“ _No_ ,”

Tamlin staggered back out into the night, feeling like he’d been shot full of arrows.

———————

The memory of their conversation lingered with him. Any time the urge to do or say something struck him, he thought back to that moment. She hadn’t been wrong. Not about any of it, and Tamlin hated that the most.

For an instant he wanted to be back in the forests. Away from the noise and the blood. Away from all the things that reminded him of the version of himself he no longer wanted to be. He’d been different then, but dropped back into a testing position he fell back on the Tamlin he thought he’d left behind.

So he became quiet during their meetings. If she asked for advice - which she often did about the landscape and terrain, Tamlin gave it, but he stopped speaking out of turn. She was sharp. And kind. She enjoyed teasing those fighting for her - making them laugh. She cheated at cards. But was very rarely caught out. Along the Prythian coast forces from Hybern had made land at several points but the more that came, the more Fae materialized to fight them from the other Courts. Even Winter and Autumn, who’d been staunchly playing down the assaults as skirmishes - even they sent their armies.

For all the ache it caused, Tamlin found himself warming to Kylan. Perhaps partially because he was the only Fae who would willingly choose to speak to him, but he reminded him of Lucien too much to dislike. And therw was still a hollow space in Tamlin where their friendship had once been. He’d failed him. Like he’d failed Feyre. Like he’d failed his people - failed himself. It was hard. Having to constantly remind himself that the reason so much in his life was askew was simply because he’d made it that way.

Wave after wave of Hybern ships hit the coastline and even working together, the numbers making land eventually swelled beyond what they could contain. Even when the Court of Nightmares opened and it’s citizen’s came sweeping out from under their mountain, their warden clad in gold armour, leading the charge, they only briefly pushed them back.

But for Tamlin, something else had been steadily creeping up his list of concerns.

The rite - the Calanmai. He could feel it. Chasing at his heels like a snapping wolf. The fighting needed to be done before then, at least in Spring. They now had two months to clear his Court of Hybern Fae.


	3. Chapter 3

He saw Feyre in the early weeks of the invasion, as the fighting began to pick up and his forests began to burn. Saw her in the black armour of the Night Court swoop down from the sky, a dark glimmering crown on her head, flanked by Rhysand. Watched them as they tore through the ranks gathered against them. Theirs and Masha’s legions had been driven together but the fighting. Pressure on their flanks pushing them to the banks on either side of the river. Fighting so close now that Tamlin could count the enemy soldiers the faced. Make out the Hybern emblems on their breastplates.

Kylan and General Masha had stopped to watch with him. Their own forces already victorious and currently cleaning the battlefield of dead. So they took in the spectacle of the Night Court Lords laying waste to their adversaries. The pure violence of it. Tamlin felt the searing power on the wind as they broke the enemy lines like brittle timbers. Further North, he’d heard that Tarquin had become more aggressively proactive in his battles, and had begun taking ships before they made landfall. The problem with that was now Hybern’s fleets had begun avoiding Summer waters altogether. Landing further North meant straying into the treacherous waters of Winter, so Spring was becoming the most volatile front in Prythian. With all of Hybern landing along or just south of Tamlin’s beaches.

“Apparently, there’s another forty ships on route,” Kylan said, not mentioning whether it was his mother or father speaking into his mind.

“We don’t have the numbers to hold that kind of force back,” Masha said quietly.

Tamlin counted about a thousand warriors in their group. Depending on how many they were squeezing on the Hybern ships, anywhere from four to six thousand would be landing.

“Rhysand and Feyre are the closest,” Kylan asked with more than a little enthusiasm. An opportunity to fight alongside his parents. Show them how much he’d learned.

The General’s mouth creased into a tight line.

“Go help set up camp,” was all she said to him.

“Just say the word and I can have them meet with us?”

“ _Kylan_!” she snapped and he looked as though she’d slapped him across the face. He blinked, and bowed quickly.

“You should let him speak to them”

“And you would be _okay_ with that?”

Tamlin laughed. She was ridiculous. The things of herself she’d sacrificed because it would save lives. Those scars she carried. She bore them only because she’d prioritize others over herself. Spending so much power on them that she’d barely enough to keep herself alive. And she was asking him if he was _comfortable_ fightingalongside his ex fiancé and her husband. As if it mattered at this point.

“The only thing I’m not okay with is losing my Court,”

———————

She’d cut her hair and of all the ways she looked different, Tamlin noticed that about Feyre first. Her crown keeping it clear from her face as it fell in waves just above her shoulders. They walked together, the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court, her hand on his forearm. Heads held high. Tamlin was a pauper in his borrowed Summer Court armour. Masha was stained bloody. Even Kylan looked disheveled. They were all worn and tired. They looked like peasants.

But Feyre released Rhysand’s arm and ran forward to hug her son, her crown slipping slightly, hair coming free. He was taller than her now but still she crushed him in her arms.

“Is this a scar??” she pawed at his cheek - at a very feint line there while he playfully batted her hands aside.

“I’ve had this for as long as I can remember,” he laughed.

“Have you been treating my son well?” Rhysand asked Masha, a feral grin on his face.

“No better or worse than the rest of them,”

“Well, clearly better than Tamlin,” he outstretched his hand in greeting and with a sigh, Tamlin took it. He must have changed, truly, because the thought of shaking Rhysand’s hand even a year ago would have been more than he could bare. “Each time I see you, you seem to look more and more like a wild beast,” Rhysand smiled. Taunting him.

Tamlin snorted, showing the High Lord of the Night Court his fangs.

“I _am_ a wild beast, Rhysand,”

Masha cleared her throat to get their attention.

“We have about eleven-hundred warriors. Four hundred Illyrians, three hundred from the Night Court, around two hundred from Summer and two from a mix of Autumn and Winter,” Masha counted off her fingers.

“Four from autumn, a hundred Illyrians, three from the Night Court,” Rhysand arched his brow. “I’m surprised you’ve any from Summer left, last I heard Tarquin called them back to his main force,”

“I guess they just like me more,” she smiled sweetly at him. Or tried, too. With the blood and the scars, the speckling of enemy flesh clinging to her braid, she simply looked terrifying.

“Yes, well, communication channels are rather unreliable lately, and they do appreciate not dying,” Kylan snickered. And the reason Rhysand likely agreed to send his son to the Illyrian General became blindingly obvious.

“Don’t we all,” Rhysand murmured.

Feyre was mostly silent. Letting her husband and son catch up. She looked to Tamlin and in his mind he heard her say. _I need a moment_

Whatever it was she needed to speak to him about, Rhysand knew already, and as he led his son and the Illyrian General away, he didn’t bother to look back and ask why she remained unmoved.

“You look well,” Tamlin finally said after an awkward moment.

He hadn’t exchanged words with her in over twenty years he realized. Catching glimpses of her from afar. Glimpses of the live she’d made for herself.

“I’ve certainly felt better,” she muttered, looking toward the ocean, the wings on her back vanishing. “I’d thought we were done with this - done with the fighting. Did they not lose enough of their people the last time they tried to invade?”

Tamlin followed her gaze. The distant dark blue waters glowing against the sunset. In days there would be the shadows of ships breaching that tranquil horizon. And more would die.

“Apparently not. Though, they’re relying solely on numbers with little in the way of tactics - they will lose far more this time round,”

“That was Cassian’s opinion as well, he says there’s desperation in it,”

Tamlin wouldn’t have described it quite like that, but there was certainly an urgency in the waves of soldiers they sent. They didn’t retrieve their dead. They sent warriors to an obvious death. A mad rush.

“How is Elain?” Tamlin asked and Feyre was more than a little startled by the question. She looked at him as though he were a perfect stranger. He felt a profound shame at the sudden defensiveness in her stance. To anyone else his question was simply that. But to Feyre, it still carried a threat. “She…seemed out of sorts the last time we spoke,” Tamlin explained.

“I didn’t believe her when she told me you were friends,” Feyre sighed. “ _Sad_. She’s been keeping to herself a lot these days. I can never quite tell where she is, but she seems sad,” she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a crumpled up letter addressed to him. Past, present, future. As Elain Archeron grew older, so to did her powers. “Azriel said she wrote this for you, for when we finally spoke again. It’s been in my pocket for a long time,” Feyre smiled at him though it was strained.

Tamlin opened it there and then, skimming the first couple of elegant lines of feminine, high society swirls before stuffing it away in his pocket. Unable to process more than the initial, sharp, agonizing jab of it’s contents. Like a knife to his chest.

“Your city is beautiful,” he said to Feyre instead. “It is far worthier of you than I ever could have been. I’m sorry for all you suffered on my behalf - my arrogance. To think you would settle for anything less,” and Tamlin bowed so low that his field of vision was swallowed by the shine of her black boots. He closed his eyes a moment, waiting for the ringing of steel. The edge against his throat that never materialized. He’d called her a whore at the meeting of the High Lords. Barricaded her in Rosehall. Ignored her as she’d withered like his mother’s roses. Things of beauty - of long lasting value, required work, and care.

By the Cauldron, he gave that _wedding dress_ his approval. He was a _monster_.

“Thank you,” Feyre breathed before a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth and something wicked flashed in her eyes. “And I guess I’m sorry for destroying your Court,”

“The only thing truly capable of destroying my Court is neglect,” Tamlin shook his head, standing tall, it was just the way with gardens. It was his foolishness then, just as it was now that had left his lands vulnerable. “And the blame for that lies squarely with me. I don’t ask for your forgiveness, but know that I _am_ sorry,”

Tamlin felt deep sympathy with Kylan as her arms crushed him. He felt her warmth - her otherworldly strength, even through their armour and a peculiar sense of peace washed over him.

“Forever is too long to hold grudges,”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Rhysand and the others return.

“What was in Elain’s letter?” Feyre asked him quietly and Tamlin let out a tired breath.

“Nothing I hadn’t already figured out,” he said, rushing through the words as Rhysand and the others came into hearing range.

“The timing for this isn’t going to be good, it’ll directly overlap with the Calanmai tonight,” Rhysand said, running a hand through his hair. “And we won’t be fighting long if crops fail,”

Tamlin understood. He wouldn’t be there to fight with them. But his task would be no less important.

“They’ll pivot west - it’ll be close, but they should miss the cave. There’s heavy brush and uneven terrain and if they’re smart, they’ll look to avoid the area entirely,” Masha said, crossing her arms. Tomorrow was a world away from Tamlin.

They broke for the night and instead of covering himself with a canopy of wide leaves and bramble as he normally did, Tamlin sat out under the stars. Slowly, and when he was sure no one would see, he took out the crushed letter and read it again to himself.

_To my dearest Tamlin,_

_I am sorry for lying to you. Truthfully, there are things even I can’t see, and although I do not know who might be out there for you, I know you will be worthy of her when you do eventually meet. I’m sure you realise now that you and your Court are important. You are the bridge to the mortal world. The season of change. And though change is difficult and often painful, the ice will always thaw. And I know there is warmth in Spring if you can hold out against the last days of Winter._

_This is not the greatest threat we all will face._

_Your friend, always,_

_Elain_

Tamlin choked back a harsh sob, biting down against the tears that started falling. Just two made it passed his cheeks before he regained composure, wiping them away with his sleeve. He would not cry. Not here. And not now. Now that he finally had an opportunity to do what he should have been doing all along.

Their forces merged in the darkness of the early morning and by sunrise, new battle formations were being formed. But Tamlin wasn’t donning his armour, he wasn’t joining in with the drills. He was cleaning himself, applying the ceremonial paint to himself that would have normally been applied by others of his Court. His people however had fled, and all Tamlin could hope for was that the magic he would channel would provide the rest. Calanmai had never failed before. Provided he was in the cave, as long as he opened himself to the magic, it would work out. It always did.

———————-

The sun had set and the fighting had started when Tamlin winnowed to the cave. The Spring rite was a time of drums and fires. Music and pleasure and carnal desires. But the cave was dark and empty, and the drums were silent. The forests were still and the only fires were the fires of war, blazing in the distance.

Tamlin approached the altar and knelt. It was different, strange and frightening opening himself to the magic without the energy the others would bring. The encouragement and the belief. The magic felt almost too much for him alone. When it bled into him, he felt it burn in his veins.

The light of the moon trickled in from outside as Tamlin waited. And waited. It was passed midnight when the reality hit him. No one was coming. Sacred rite or not, there was a battle going on outside. He could hear them not far from the entrance. They hadn’t been smart. But even that thought was fleeting as the magic began searing him like molten lead. He clawed at the stones beneath him, screaming for release. The paint decorating his skin ran with sweat. His hands were claws, and from his head, horns pierced his scalp. Bloody points twisting from his skull.

And he roared and beat at the earth with the pain of containing so much power alone. Splitting his fists on the rocks. Blood filling his mouth as he thrashed, biting his tongue. And a voice inside him that he knew to be truth, told him that if he didn’t complete the rite, it would take his life, and his power, and all of it would flow back into the earth. The price of his hubris. Tamlin stared at the entrance to the cave as the night sky began to glow with an orange light and the sounded of the birds told him the dawn was approaching. His body felt as if it would tear itself apart.

And then he heard it, the sound of footsteps, the rustle of fabric.

The chime of steel.

Tamlin rocked back onto the balls of his feet and tried to stand but his limbs were weak and they shook as he rose.

The Hybern soldier with white hair and ice blue eyes came into view, advancing with his sword drawn and in any other situation, Tamlin would have torn him apart a thousand different ways. Rended him to the bone with claws and teeth. Crushed him - choked him in vines. Stolen his air. But his mind was slipping away with his physical strength. Tamlin couldn’t think.

He blinked and when his eyes refocused, the male with white hair was standing over him, grinning. Hair plastered to his brow. His sword shimmering. It must have been raining outside.

“Do wish to say anything before you die?”

“White hair is very conspicuous,”

And then red filled Tamlin’s vision. Warm blood splattering his cheek and chest. A red line opened up across the males throat, as his eyes widened, a gurgling, bubbling fountain of red spewing passed his lips as he fell back. And then Tamlin saw her, and the magic inside him keened with need. Tamlin could have wept.

_He couldn’t do this._

“Where are the others?”

“There are none. You need to leave,” he hissed

“It’s almost dawn,” Masha reached out to grab his arm and he recoiled as though she burned

And then she threw down her sword and unlatched the breastplate she wore, slipping off her boots, her siphons drowning in blood.

“No, it shouldn’t be you,” Tamlin drew back.

“ _And what’s fucking wrong with me?_ ”

And he knew - he knew and couldn’t bring himself to say the words aloud. He could barely think it. But the dawn was rising outside, and the Spring maiden had arrived.

When he stopped resisting it, he found his hands reaching out and the instant they touched her skin his control was a memory. She smelled of death and new life, of blood and sex. Razor sharp nails shredded her shirt as Tamlin buried his face in the crux of her neck. He felt the hum of her pulse beating under his tongue as it slipped out to press against her throat. The heartbeat he could hear thunder across her wings. With the rounded back of a claw he brushed the membrane unsure if she would feel it. Her gasp in his ear elicited a soft growl that started in the pit of his stomach and Tamlin traced his teeth up to her ear lobe, biting down.

“ _Harder_ ,”

He bit the skin on her neck, just below the ear, this time tasting blood, and her cry of rapture made his soul hum. He felt her hands creep across his shoulders; and then her round nails raked across his back cleaving a raw path through the paint.

Tamlin turned, picking her up off her feet and driving her down against the stone altar hard enough that the stone broke against her wings. The magic was in them both now. He took her by the hips and pulled her trousers from her legs. The scent of her arousal was a drug and as he kissed her - and it was the first time he’d kissed anyone since Feyre - stars blossomed behind his eyes, lighting a dark place in his chest. Something new and different. The earth groaned beneath him with the first thrust and he felt her buck against him.

Blood blossomed under the tips of his claws as he grabbed her by the waist and drove himself into her with abandon. The harsh crack of their skin striking was punctuated by her screams and curses. Her hands found their way to the horns on Tamlin’s head, and she gripped them tightly. Anticipating a steep plummet.

Time had already been against him, and with the first light of dawn about to strike, Tamlin felt his end crack open the earth itself. It tore outward across the land. Like a tidal wave of power. Flowers, green vines and brambles bloomed around him, blocking the entrance of the cave. He sat back on his heels panting. They were covered in blood, from the dead Hybern Fae, from the claw marks raked across Masha’s skin. Rivulets of blood ran down his chest from his shoulders where she’d bitten him. The scratches on his back stung. The distant sounds of fighting had disappeared and Tamlin absently wondered if they’d been victorious.

When she sat up, he watched the wounds and cuts fade. The bruises disappear. She had the nerve nto grin at him.

“Pity I didn’t arrive a little sooner,” she mumbled, blinking away the beads of sweat running down her face. Tamlin almost leaned forward, imagining licking them away. His hands were just hands again, the horns vanishing, but there was still that lust that couldn’t be quenched. That desire still burning him alive.

“We should see how the battle fared,” he said instead, noting the look she gave him. “Don’t pout,”

“We won,” There was a note of incredulity in her tone. Of _course_ they’d won. “And as a general rule I don’t bed anyone under my command. Unfortunately, since my promotion, that encompasses a lot of males. Forgive me for lamenting an end to an otherwise enjoyable morning,”

“Well I can only apologise, I’m normally a much more considerate lover” he said. The bite on his shoulder throbbed, and Tamlin braced his palm against it.

And she sat up, walking on her knees to him until they were face to face, and she kissed him. Magic like a cool breeze seeped deep into his bones, soothing the aches and the pains he felt. Her healing magic.

“I’m definitely not complaining,”

———————

The armies of Prythian drove Hybern to the sea in a single night of rattled shields and broken swords. As the invading force fled down the coast toward their ships, they found the armies of the mortal Kingdoms burning them. Their camps destroyed. Their escape blocked off.

A Fae with hair like fire embers leading a host of nearly two thousand men.

When Tamlin arrived back around noon, they were still cleaning away bodies - burning the dead. To his confusion, some of the corpses tossed into the fires were wreathed in tight bramble. The thorny vines geowing through them. Into their ears and from their mouths and eyes. The Calanmai - Tamlin realized.

He found Rhysand and Feyre speaking with the Fae who’d come to their aid. Tamlin staggered a step. He could have sworn it was Lucien. The hair, the features, the likeness was uncanny. But the closer the more he realized the features were different. This wasn’t Lucien.

“Tamlin! This is Bród, Lucien’s son,” Rhysand said. There was almost a tinge of excitement in his voice and Tamlin nodded, examining him. The softer curve to his shorter ears. The scent of the mortal about him. He wore Human clothes. Mortal weapons. A half Fae.

“I will always count your father as a friend,”

“Interesting, since he counted you an ornery, treacherous bastard,” the male laughed, offering Tamlin his hand. The High Lord of Spring grasped his arm and laughed. It was definitely Lucien’s son.

“And how is that whining fool?”

The males face became drawn.

“Mourning our mother. We were all still grieving when we heard Hybern had invaded,” he said sadly.

To a certain extent Tamlin knew that kind of loss. But he simply stood there, silently processing it all. _Elain_. The last time he’d seen her - how out of sorts she’d been. She _knew_. Even a rejected bond. Even so far away, she’d known.

“All?” Feyre asked the male, her eyebrows rising.

“I have six brothers and two sisters - several nieces and nephews,” Bród said with a smirk.

Tamlin’s jaw almost dropped.

“He’s no Fae… he’s a fucking _rabbit_ ,” Rhysand blurted out.

And the laughter helped ease the tension somewhat but still in Tamlin’s chest, a gaping chasm echoed all the apologies he’d yet to make to his old friend. He would give him time, and when Lucien was ready he would make it up to him.

He could tell from the glaze in Feyre’s eyes that she’d been crying. He shouldn’t have known what the stages of that looked like, but he did. She’d known Vassa well, and he knew this was a blow.

“Thank you for coming to our aid,” she told Bród.

“I know my father would have wanted it,”

“What are your plans now?” Feyre asked him. His forces were still mostly intact. The Fae had practically run themselves onto the mortal’s swords, trying to escape the allied Prythian forces chomping at their heels. “It’s a long way back,”

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead. These soldiers are loyal to me, but my cousin sits on my mother’s throne now - I didn’t exactly get permission to march,”

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” Tamlin said.

“Offering sanctuary to mortals?” Rhysand asked him, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise m

“Any land you’re willing to bleed for, should not turn you away,”

“Thank you, I …may take you up on that,”

Tamlin didn’t see General Masha again after they’d parted in the morning. There was a lot happening. Wagons were being packed back up, Fae soldiers were returning to their courts and he knew her heart lay in her home in the northern mountains. Her sense of duty was unwavering and he could admit that he might have loved that about her.

In a few days, Tamlin knew the citizen’s of the spring Court were likely to start returning and explaining to them why some thousand mortals now shared their land would be no easy task. So he returned to Rosehall and began the repairs he should have started twenty years previous.

There was a lot of work to do. Floors to be ripped up. Plants in need of taming. They’d grown even wilder since the Calanmai, an almost sentience about them and as he pulled them from the doorframes they twined around his hands, piercing him with thorns as if Tamlin weren’t the High Lord of Spring. As if they didn’t grow in his house at his leisure.

“Good morning, Tamlin,”

And there again was Elain. Holding her shears. Barefoot and smiling.

“You didn’t tell me about Lucien,” he didn’t want it to sound like an accusation, but there was a hurt in his voice that persisted.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my story to tell,”

“And you _lied_ ,” he snorted.

“Did I?” Elain seemed shocked, placing her palm to her chest in mock horror. “Hard to keep track of everything going on,”

Tamlin held up the letter she’d written. The note he still carried in his pocket, stained and crumpled. A phantom wind snatched it from between his fingers and carried it off and out of his home.

“Tell me, will I see her again?”

And Elain looked passed him, a smile tugging at her pink lips. A wild look in her eyes. The ages unknown stretched out before her like a tapestry of fine silk threads she’d begun to learn to weave.

“I’ll get us some wine,”

“No tea?” he mocked.

“No, you’ll definitely need the wine,” she smirked.


End file.
